


as good as the day I met you

by blazeofglory



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Bang Challenge, Coming Out, Drinking, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Back Together, Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Phone Calls & Telephones, Slow Burn, Smoking, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 11:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8444701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazeofglory/pseuds/blazeofglory
Summary: Kent and Jack come out together. Not together together, though, no matter how much Kent wishes that were true. Alternately titled: "the jackparse get back together fic."





	

**Author's Note:**

> TW: mentions of depression, anxiety, suicide, Jack's overdose, and a description of a panic attack.
> 
> I swear this is way fluffier than it sounds!

It’s late and Kent is on the knife-edge between tipsy and drunk when he feels brave enough to call the number he’s never quite managed to delete from his contacts. He doesn’t really expect Jack to pick up, because it’s two a.m. Providence time and because the last time they spoke was over a year ago and they’d both said terrible things, and—and because Jack’s never picked up, in all the times Kent’s called over the past, what, six years? Seven years?

But Jack does pick up, and his voice is tired and achingly familiar when he says, “Kent?”

“Hey, Zimms,” Kent manages to get out, even though his heart is in his throat and suddenly he has no idea what to say to Jack. Somehow, he always says the wrong thing, and he’s sure this time will be no different. _Fuck_ , he didn’t even really think Jack would answer. “I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

Jack is quiet for a minute, so quiet Kent can’t even hear his breathing, and he’s already internally cursing himself for fucking up, until—“I didn’t think I would either. It’s late.”

“Am I disturbing your beauty sleep?” Kent chirps, like he had a million times, a million years ago. “I know you like to go to bed at eight p.m.”

“I _rarely_ go to bed before nine, jerk,” Jack teases back, and then, softer, “Why did you call?”

“I can’t just call to talk to you?” It comes out more defensive than he intends, but, well. Whatever. Shit hasn’t been easy between them in a long time.

“Not in the middle of the night. Are you drunk?”

Kent can’t hold back a frustrated sigh. He _has_ had quite a bit to drink, but fuck Jack for assuming. “No, I’m not drunk. But I—I did call for a reason. We gotta talk about something.”

“About what?” Jack asks quickly, an anxious edge to his voice now that Kent hates himself for putting there. He wants to reassure Jack that he has nothing to worry about this time, but that would be a lie.

“I want to come out,” Kent says, and he’s very aware of the way his eyes feel dry and his hands are shaking a little. He wishes he were home, with Kit purring and oblivious in his lap, soothing his nerves without even knowing what’s wrong. But he’s alone, in some anonymous hotel room in a city he barely knows. He has a game to play tomorrow, but tonight, he had declined invitations to hit the town in favor of drinking tiny bottles of tequila and smoking through most of a pack of cigarettes. He’s not supposed to be smoking, not in this hotel room, and actually not at all—his trainer would kill him if she knew. He has no intention of ever telling her. He has so few vices, and so few nights like this, that he thinks he’s earned it.

Jack still hasn’t said a word.

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” Kent says after the silence has stretched on too long, his eyes squeezed shut. It hurts to say, because he _wants_ to come out, he wants to quit hiding, but he won’t do it if it means hurting Jack. “There were rumors back in the Q, and I really don’t think anyone’s forgot about it. If I come out, people are gonna have a lot to say about me and you.”

“They’ll know,” Jack finally murmurs, quieter now. “God, Kent, they’d figure it out so fast.”

Kent spares a second to wish that Jack was less ashamed of their past, but that’s a little too hypocritical, even for him.

“They wouldn’t know for sure. They’d guess, but we could talk to your PR people and it could be written off as more rumors, okay? It could be played off.”

Jack sighs, long and heavy. “I don’t know. If—if I deny everything now, it’ll be worse when I do come out.”

 _When_ , not _if_.

“I kinda thought you had no intention of ever coming out,” Kent replies, holding his phone very tight. Kent has always sort of known he’d have to, because he’s never been the kind to like keeping secrets. But Jack—Jack is very, _very_ good at keeping secrets. There are so many things about him that Kent still doesn’t know; things he’ll probably _never_ know. When he’d ever thought to wonder about it, he had assumed Jack would take this particular secret to the grave, or at least keep it until he retired. Or maybe even just until after he had a Stanley Cup or two under his belt.

“I don’t know,” Jack says again. Kent wishes he could see the look on his face, even though he knows it would break his heart. “I talked about it a little with my, uh, my friend.”

“Your boyfriend?” Kent remembers a boy in the hallway, the last time he dragged his ass to see Jack and get rejected again. He can’t remember what the boy looked like; only that the expression on his face had made it clear that he’d heard every cruel thing Kent had said.

“Not anymore.”

Kent wants to ask if the boyfriend was the boy in the hallway, or a different boy, someone from school, or maybe even another Falconer, or someone Jack met in a coffee shop—someone Kent didn’t know; someone that had been making Jack happy when Kent couldn’t. But that line of thinking is pointless, isn’t it? Jack has an ex now, when Kent had never even known he _had_ a boyfriend, because Jack has a whole fucking life without Kent, and—it’s an old hurt, okay. He can suck it up and move the fuck on and not be sad and angry and petty about not knowing. He blames the sour taste of tequila that’s lingering in the back of his throat for the sudden, stupid urge to cry.

Social niceties decree that Kent should probably spout some bullshit _I’m sorry_ or whatever, but he refuses. Instead, he gets the conversation back on track.

“So you—you do plan to come out someday?”

“I guess,” Jack mumbles. He sounds so _tired_ , like he has every time Kent’s heard from him since—since the overdose. It’s the kind of tired that doesn’t come from staying up too late; it’s the kind of tired born from years of unhappiness. Kent wonders if Jack has ever been happy, if he’s ever been well rested. He thinks he knows the answer already. “But not now. I haven’t been playing long enough, I _can’t_. You have two cups and you’ve set records, you know? I haven’t done _anything_ yet, and I can’t even think about coming out until I do.”

Kent knows the answer to his question before he even asks it, but he has to ask anyway. “You don’t want me to come out, do you?”

“It’s selfish of me,” Jack admits, sounding defeated, and, yeah, it is, but Kent has been selfish enough in his life to not hate Jack for it now. He shifts against the headboard, wishing again that he were anywhere but here. He doesn’t know what he wants more—to be with Jack right now, or to just be home.

“I get it,” Kent replies, because it’s true, and he doesn’t even care if Jack can tell his throat is thick with tears. If he has to stay in the closet until Jack is ready to come out too, it’s going to be years. Years and years and fucking years, and it—it takes his breath away for a minute. There’s no end in sight to the secrecy. No end in sight to the shame.

“Kenny…”

For once, Kent wishes Jack wouldn’t call him that. It reminds him too much of twin beds that were never big enough for two, and stolen kisses in the dead of night, and the best fucking linemate he’s ever played with, and the way Jack’s eyes had always seemed too blue to be real, and, and—it’s too much to handle right now, when he’s so goddamn alone and his chest feels so tight.

“It’s okay,” he says eventually. “I didn’t think you’d be on board.”

“It’s not fair to you, I know that.” The words sound wrenched from Jack’s throat. This is the most honest with each other they’ve been in a fucking lifetime. “You can do it anyway, you don’t have to—to stay in the closet because of me, okay? I won’t ask you to.”

“But you’re not asking me to,” Kent points out. “I offered.”

Jack sighs again, and god, there’s very little Kent wouldn’t give to make Jack happy right now. “I’m sorry.”

Jack’s never said those words before, but—but Kent is too fucked up now to be happy or smug or feel much of anything about it. He’s wishing now that he’d had more to drink. He has a few cigarettes left, though, so he lights another and takes a long drag.

The smoke clouding the air doesn’t come close to the dense fog of his mind.

“Kent?”

“I’m still here,” he mumbles around the cigarette. His eyes are open again, staring blankly across the room. It looks like every other damn hotel room he’s ever been in in his life—beige and boring and lonely.

“Are you smoking?”

“Don’t sound so disapproving, I’m allowed to fuck up sometimes.”

It’s a clear invitation to a fight—god knows Jack has been witness to just about every time Kent’s fucked up in his life. But he doesn’t rise to the bait.

“It’s late and you have a game tomorrow,” Jack says. Kent snorts derisively.

“Relax, Zimms.” The nickname sticks in his throat, but he gets it out anyway. “I’ve been fine without your parenting thus far, haven’t I?”

“I don’t know, have you?” It’s not angry or challenging; it’s honest. Way too fucking honest.

“Fuck you,” Kent replies, but there’s no heat behind it.

“I’m allowed to care about you.” Jack finally sounds angry now, and Kent is just relieved to hear any real emotion in his voice.

“You haven’t cared in years, Jack!” Kent lets the anger burst out of him, sudden and harsh. Ash falls into his lap and he doesn’t even notice. “You didn’t care when I came to see you last year, and you didn’t care the time before that, or before that, or before—”

“You don’t know how I feel,” Jack snaps. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’ve been dealing with some shit.”

“That was years ago, don’t pull that shit with me. You didn’t want to talk to me back then, even though I was fucking _in love with you_ and I thought you loved me back, but I understood, okay? I gave you space! But you don’t need fucking space anymore, you haven’t needed it for years! I’ve been dealing with shit too, but you wouldn’t even know because you aren’t fucking here!”

Kent can hear Jack breathing through the phone, fast and angry.

“We aren’t good for each other,” Jack responds once his breathing has slowed. “Can’t you see that?”

“We were good once.”

They hadn’t always fought every time they spoke. There hadn’t always been so much distance—both physical and emotional. There hadn’t always been so many secrets. But, god—they’re practically strangers now; strangers with a shared history, but strangers nonetheless.

“I’m tired, Kenny.”

Tired because it’s late or tired of fighting, Kent doesn’t know. Probably both.

“I miss you,” Kent says, because... Because he always does and it’s always true.

Jack obviously remembers the script, because he doesn’t say it back.

“What did you mean, before?” Jack asks, and, _what?_

“Which part?”

Jack hesitates, and then, “When you said you’ve been dealing with shit too.”

“You don’t really get to know that anymore, Jack.”

“I know, but—” Jack stops, and Kent can hear police sirens in the distance. He takes another drag and wonders if Jack can hear the sirens through the phone. “Was it like my shit?”

“Jesus,” Kent swears. “I don’t get you. You want nothing to do with me, but you wanna know these things?”

“I told you I care about you,” Jack repeats, defiant as ever.

Kent exhales harshly and answers honestly. “No, okay? I’m not—on anything.”

“And the other thing?”

Kent could ask what Jack means, but again, he knows. _The other thing_ , Jesus fucking Christ. What a way to put it, calling Jack’s fucking suicide attempt just a _thing_.

Kent doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “It really is late, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Jack murmurs, letting him get away with changing the subject. “We should go to bed.”

“I don’t want to end it like this,” Kent replies, because god even knows the next time they’ll talk. It really was a miracle that Jack had picked up the phone at all, and it wasn’t a miracle that Kent could see repeating. “ _Jesus_ , I hate fighting with you.”

“Maybe we… We can talk again soon?”

Kent distantly notices that his hands have stopped shaking at some point. He smiles, for the first time in their whole conversation. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be good.”

“I’ll call you,” Jack says, and Kent actually believes him. “I’ll think about what you said, about coming out.”

Yet another surprise from Jack Zimmermann. Kent nods, still smiling like an idiot. “Okay. Bye, Jack.”

“Bye, Kenny.”

Jack hangs up first. Kent stares at his phone screen until it goes dark. He can’t decide if that conversation went really well or really poorly, but—but _god_ , it was good to hear Jack’s voice.

It’s ridiculous, but maybe staying in the closet won’t be so bad, not if it’s what gets Jack to be his friend again. Or—well, he’s still sort of holding out hope that they’ll end up together, as far-fetched as that idea is.

It’s not something he should be thinking; not something he should be hoping.

He sort of can’t help it anyway.

 

-

 

Kent gets a text from Jack a few days later that says, _I’m winning the cup this year. then we can come out._

The “we” makes something stupid and young in Kent’s heart leap, a naïve feeling that he fights to shove back down. They might come out at the same time, but not—not _together_ , Jesus, he knows that.

He texts back, _we’ll see if you can pry the cup out of my cold dead hands_ , and Jack doesn’t respond. It’s okay anyway.

 

-

 

The Aces lose early in the playoffs, but the Falcs keep winning. They win and they win and they fucking _win_.

Kent watches the final game on the edge of his seat, surrounded by his fellow Aces, all screaming their heads off. The game is so close it’s _insane_ , but Jack is _unstoppable_ , and he sinks that last fucking goal, and Kent leaps off the couch in excitement.

In all the post-game interviews, Jack is flushed red with happiness and exertion, and Kent is so, so fucking _proud_ of him. The Cup looks damn good in his hands. Strangely, Kent isn’t even jealous that he’s not in Jack’s place right now.

He sends Jack a series of increasingly drunk congratulatory messages that he doesn’t expect to get replies from, but he does, a few hours later, once Kent is finally alone, in bed, decidedly _not thinking about how Jack is finally living his dream without Kent_.

The text is one sentence and one emoticon.

_I’ll call you tomorrow & we can make plans to come out. :)_

Kent sends back a thumbs up emoji, then screenshots Jack’s message for safekeeping. His heart is racing.

This is really happening.

 

-

 

[jckkent]: did everyone see the pap pics I reblogged???? WHY IS KENT IN PROVIDENCE

[zimmerho]: @jckkent oh my god what if he’s here for jack. he’s gotta be here for jack. MY OTP

[jckkent]: @zimmerho BITCH EXACTLY!! I’M!!!!! if there are pics of them together, I might actually spontaneously combust

[sweetpie90]: lmao could jackparse shippers maybe consider…. calming the fuck down

[zimmerho]: @sweetpie90 consider fucking off

 

-

 

It’s not long before Kent is in Providence, meeting Jack at some little local deli. Their PR people are meeting in an office somewhere, but Kent and Jack had wanted to talk on their own. They don’t mention the fact that the last time they’d seen each other, Jack had shoved Kent away and Kent had yelled and they’d both cried the second they were alone.

It’s been years since they last had such a normal interaction, but it feels familiar all the same.

“You know they’re going to ask the obvious,” Kent points out, after they’ve already gone over all the basics, and Jack just sighs.

“We don’t have to answer them.”

Kent snorts, nudging Jack’s foot under the table with his own, making Jack look up with a grin hinting at the edge of his lips. Even after all these years, he’s so damn good-looking, it gives Kent pause before he remembers that he was about to say something. Fall looks good on Jack—his burgundy sweater stretches deliciously over his shoulders and he’s wearing a soft-looking plaid scarf that’s much too fashionable for him to have picked it out himself. It has Alicia’s touch written all over it.

“They’ll see no answer _as_ an answer, and it kind of is.” He shrugs, leaning back in his chair but leaving his foot pressed up against Jack’s. He’s not sure what it means that Jack doesn’t pull away; he resists the urge to ask. “We could tell them we’re just friends, or we could be honest about our past.”

“We probably have to be,” Jack answers, fidgeting with his napkin and not meeting Kent’s eyes. He’s looked tense all morning, stiff and awkward and anxious. “I mean, part of the reason we’re coming out at the same time is because they already have so much reason to think we used to… date or whatever. So.”

“So we tell them we’re functional exes.”

Jack makes a face. “That sounds so weird.”

Kent shrugs and shoves more fries in his mouth, talking with his mouth full just to see Jack roll his eyes fondly. It feels so _unbelievably_ good to be looked at with any sort of fondness. “That’s what we are, aren’t we?”

Jack seems to finally start to relax, smiling a little. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

 

-

 

The press conference is held in Vegas a few weeks later, so Jack flies out. They haven’t seen each other in person since that lunch in Providence, but they’ve been texting and talking on the phone a few times a week, ostensibly just to plan everything. But Kent knows it’s more than that; he’s seizing his opportunity to get Jack back in his life for good. As a _friend_. So, as a friend, Kent offers Jack his spare room. He sort of didn’t think Jack would accept the offer, but he _does_. It’s a good thing, really. It’s a step forward, towards being proper friends again.

But.

It’s also maybe the dumbest thing Kent’s ever done in his life.

It’s just after six in the morning, the day of the big announcement, and Kent is only awake to feed a whiny Kit her breakfast, and then he plans to go back to sleep. When he gets to his kitchen, Kit following fast on his heels, he’s greeted by the sight of Jack Zimmermann leaning against his counter in worn pajama pants and an old Samwell tshirt. His hair’s a mess and he’s barefoot and drinking Kent’s shitty 7/11 brand orange juice, and—he looks _at home_. Kit even abandons Kent to rub against Jack’s legs, purring loudly.

It’s a lot to handle.

Then… Jack smiles. He sets his drink on the counter and kneels down to pet Kit; he looks up at Kent, eyes soft and sweet and a little bit sleepy. “Morning, Kenny.”

Kent really, really wants to kiss him. Or fling himself off a cliff; he’s not really sure which sounds more appealing at the moment.

“Hey, Zimms,” he murmurs instead, then yawns, and hopes Jack will attribute any weirdness to him just being tired. “You wanna do the honors of feeding the princess? She’ll love you forever if you do.”

“Well, I obviously want her to love me forever,” Jack says with a grin. And then—then he puts the last fucking nail in Kent’s coffin—he leans down just a little more and presses a soft kiss to the top of Kit’s fuzzy little head.

Jesus fucking Christ.

 

-

 

Jack’s leg is bouncing through the entire press conference; Kent really wants to put a hand on his knee to still him, but that would definitely send the wrong message here.

There are four of them seated at a long table: Kent, Jack, and Stacy and Kisha, the Aces and Falconers’ PR heads respectively. The room is packed to the brim with people from every media organization Kent’s ever heard of and some he hasn’t. He’s never had much of a problem with anxiety, but even _he_ feels like he’s going to throw up; he can imagine Jack is probably feeling even worse.

Kent does all the talking, just like the way they practiced.

“So, I’m sure some of you have jumped to the right conclusions already,” he opens, casual and easy, and he’s met with smiles. He’s always known how to play to reporters. “It’s 2016, right? Times are changing, and people are more accepting now. _You Can Play_ is doing great things to make strides towards promoting acceptance in athletic spaces, and me and Jack… We think it’s time to stop hiding.”

He looks over at Jack, who’s got his game face on. He looks ready to face the world.

Kent turns back to the crowd. In the back of his mind, he realizes he doesn’t feel like he’s going to be sick anymore. “We’re gay, and we’re proud.”

There’s one brief, glorious second of absolute silence, in which he can hear his blood pounding in his ears and he sees Jack unclench his fists out of the corner of his eye, and then—the room explodes with noise.

The rest of the press conference passes in a blurry haze of questions and questions and questions. He and Jack take turns answering— _no, we’re not dating_ , and _yes, our teams know and they’re very supportive,_ and _okay, yes, we used to date, but we really aren’t anymore_ , and _of course this isn’t going to affect us on the ice, you do realize we’ve both won the Stanley Cup, right?_ and— _I already said we’re not dating._

 

-

 

The rumors start immediately.

Literally, _immediately_.

The second the press is cleared out of the room, Kent’s phone starts ringing, and he doesn’t know who he expected to be calling, but he’s surprised to see the name _Mom_ on his screen. He stares down at his phone for a second, at the contact picture he’d set for her years ago—a selfie of the two of them in matching Santa hats, grinning in front of their Christmas tree. Everyone who’s ever seen that picture has told him that he looks just like her.

He doesn’t have to say a word when he answers, because she immediately launches into affectionate yelling.

“Kent! How could you not tell me about you and Jack? I am your _mother_ , I should have been the _first_ to know, I know you’ve been mooning over him since you were 16, now come on—”

“Mom—”

“You have to bring him to dinner! How long have you been back together? It must be serious, are you going to get married? Kent, I cannot _believe_ you didn’t tell me—”

“Mom!” He’s loud enough now to shock her into silence; he also gains the attention of everyone left in the room. He turns his back, facing the wall. Jack stays by his side, though, and Kent doesn’t brush him off. “Me and Jack aren’t dating.”

Jack looks amused, and it’s a stupidly attractive look on him.

His mom snorts in disbelief immediately. “Honey, you may not want the whole world to know, but you two are pretty transparent.”

“We are _not_ ,” Kent protests, a distinct whiny quality in his voice that only his mother can ever bring out. “We came out as gay, not as a couple. Because we are _not_ a couple.”

“What do you _mean_ , you’re not a couple?”

“I mean, we’re not dating!” Jack is outright laughing now, and Kent glares at him. “We’re just friends, Mom.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she protests, and she sounds so _annoyed_ , that Kent has to laugh too. “Kent, don’t you pretend you’re not still in love with that boy.”

He stops laughing abruptly.

“That’s beside the point,” he says quietly. Jack gives him a curious look and Kent waves him off, feeling kind of like a dick, but—but Jack really doesn’t need to hear any of this. Jack, ever the understanding one, nods and crosses the room to talk to George.

“Oh, Kent…”

“Mom, it’s fine,” he protests immediately, voice dropping to a whisper and holding the phone tight. He’s made it this far into the day without crying and he refuses to start now. “I’m just—glad he’s even speaking to me.”

“You need to talk to him,” she insists, sounding completely confident. This is familiar territory—his mother telling him what to do, whether she knows anything about the situation or not. “You boys are cute together.”

Kent snorts. “Yeah, I don’t think he wants to hear that.”

She sighs dramatically; Kent smiles ruefully.

“I’m holding out hope that you two get married someday, honey.”

Kent laughs again, turning around to catch Jack’s eye from across the room. Jack raises a brow, as if to ask if everything is okay, and Kent nods. Jack’s answering smile is small and sweet.

“Yeah, Mom. Me too.”

 

-

 

Within an hour, all of Kent’s social media accounts have been spammed with notifications and he and Jack are trending on Twitter. There’s already a Buzzfeed article titled “Jack Zimmermann and Kent Parson: a History of their Relationship,” full of pictures from when they were teenagers that Kent hasn’t seen in years. There are even blurry candids of him at that Samwell party over a year ago.

He had been in the kitchen, just standing at his island and staring down at his phone—not responding to any messages, but reading as many of them as he could as they all flooded in. He had pet Kit every time she walked by, but that was as productive as he was going to get. Jack was in the other room, talking in rapid French on the phone; Kent had been half-listening, though he doesn’t remember nearly as much French as he used to. Hearing Jack speak it, though… He’s always liked that.

Half an hour had gone past, and Jack was quiet in the living room for a few moments. Kent was scratching behind Kit’s ears when he heard Jack’s phone start to ring again. This time, when Jack picked up, it wasn’t in French—it was two words in soft, quiet English.

“Hey, Bits.”

Kent doesn’t know who “Bits” is, but he had taken that as his cue to step out onto his balcony and stare out over the city. There are cars whizzing by and bright lights in every direction. Now, he stares down at his phone, clicking on another Deadspin article with his name in the title.

He’s not brave enough to read any of the comments; he smokes a cigarette instead.

 

-

 

Kent’s down half a pack when the door slides open behind him and Jack steps out.

“Those are bad for you,” Jack says quietly, a whisper into the darkness that Kent can barely hear over the sounds of the bustling city below them.

He says nothing, but he pats the cool metal next to him in invitation. Jack doesn’t hesitate before sitting down, letting his legs dangle off the edge just like Kent’s.

“How are you holding up so far?” Jack asks. “Regret it yet?”

Kent snorts and flicks the last of his cigarette down into the street. He goes to reach for the pack, only to watch as Jack slips it into his pocket. He’s too tired to even be annoyed about it.

“Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ how you’re holding up?” he counters. “You’re the one with anxiety here.”

Jack shrugs. Kent glances over at him, and he’s surprised to see a soft smile on Jack’s face. His ridiculous, handsome face.

“I’m doing okay so far.” Jack reaches over the tiny gap between them and puts his hand on Kent’s knee, big and warm and grounding. Kent’s heart skips a beat. “I’m glad we did it together.”

 _I want to do everything together_ , Kent thinks, like the total idiot he is. It’s been almost a decade; why is he not over Jack Zimmermann yet?

For once, Jack carries the conversation instead of letting it die out awkwardly when Kent stops responding.

“Kenny,” he whispers, suddenly so much closer than before. Kent feels foolish goosebumps rising on his skin. “I’m—I’m glad we did it.”

Kent counts to ten silently, willing himself not to do anything stupid.

It doesn’t work.

_Three… Four… Five…._

He turns his head. Jack is so _close_ and looking _right at him_. His pupils are so, so wide.

_Seven… Eight… Nine…_

Kent throws caution to the wind on _ten_ and lets himself lean in.

Jack meets him halfway.

 

-

 

[zimmerho]: GUYS I ACTUALLY CANT BELIEVE THIS,, I;M LITERALLY SCREAMING

[sweetiepie90]: oh my god tho, shoutout to the hockey gods for killing the jackparse ship forever amen

[jckkent]: @sweetiepie90 ????? that makes no sense????

[sweetiepie90]: @jckkent don’t you think that if they were actually a couple, they would’ve come out as a couple??? because they didn’t. they’re both gay and both single, they said that. stop shipping them, it’s TOXIC.

[zimmerho]: @sweetpie90 lmao or maybe they just wanted to deter the press??? and they’ll come out as a couple when they’re ready??? it’s just shipping, let us live. besides, they’re #confirmed that they at least used to date

[jckkent]: ANYWAYS, my otp is canon now lmao

[sweetiepie90]: fucking whatever, I’m still gonna keep shipping jacktater

[hockey-bitch]: can’t we all just forget about shipping for now and be proud of our boys for coming out?????

[zimmerho]: DID Y’ALL SEE THE BUZZFEED ARTICLE LMAO EVEN BUZZFEED SHIPS IT

[sweetiepie90]: I hate this fandom

 

-

 

The world falls away the second their lips touch.

Kent doesn’t hear the cars anymore. He doesn’t see the lights. He doesn’t feel the cool metal of the balcony digging into his ass.

All he feels are Jack’s lips on his, needy and insistent, and Jack’s hand still on his knee, the only thing keeping Kent from floating away on cloud nine.

Jack doesn’t kiss the way he used to; he’s even better than Kent remembers.

Kent closes his eyes and shifts closer, his hands in Jack’s hair like he’s dreamt about a thousand times. He kisses back, throwing all his pent-up passion and longing into it. He licks his way into Jack’s mouth and is gratified with the soft groan he gets in response.

They kiss and kiss and _kiss_ until Kent’s lost all sense of time and his lips are going numb.

Jack is the first one to pull away. Kent leans forward to chase his lips, but Jack’s hand is suddenly on Kent’s chest, keeping him back.

Kent feels the worst sense of déjà vu.

His eyes blink open, dread pooling in his stomach.

“What are we doing?” Jack asks, voice hoarse, not looking at Kent at all. Slowly, Kent withdraws his hands into his own lap.

Kent tries to remember how to breathe. He drags a shaking hand through his hair.

“We—we’re doing whatever the fuck we want, man,” he finally says, projecting all the confidence and nonchalance that he definitely doesn’t feel into his voice.

Jack gives him a sharp look.

“We’re not getting back together.”

Kent forces a smile; he has no idea if it’s even remotely convincing. His chest feels tight and—and he wants to be sick. _What are we doing, what are we doing, we’re so fucking stupid, what are we doing…_

“We’re adults, Jack,” Kent says, voice carefully devoid of tone. He stands up and reaches for the door. “We can fool around without it having to mean anything.”

He opens the door and goes inside; he doesn’t stop walking until he reaches his bed, where he sits down heavily and tries not to panic.

When Jack comes in a minute later, Kent’s breathing is steady and there’s a carefully placed smirk on his face.

They kiss again.

And again. And again.

 

-

 

Somewhere around an hour later, Kent’s bedroom falls quiet.

Jack might be asleep, but Kent doesn’t know; he doesn’t want to look and risk seeing something he doesn’t want to see on Jack’s face. Would it be regret? Anger? Whatever it may be, Kent’s sure it isn’t soft. But it doesn’t matter—Jack is laying on his side, facing away from Kent. There’s no way to know without looking.

Kent is on his back, staring up at his blank white ceiling.

His hands are shaking.

It’s bittersweet. It’s bittersweet and it hurts and maybe it’s more bitter than sweet, but Kent can’t bring himself to regret it yet; not now, not when Jack is still here, in his _bed_ , naked and beautiful and _not Kent’s,_ but at least he hasn’t left.

Kent is trying his best to commit every single detail of the last hour to his memory. He spent years wishing he could have this back, then even more years sure that Jack would never let this happen again, and now—now, it’s happened, and it’s over. The odds of it happening again are slim to none.

It didn’t go the way Kent had dreamt.

He wants soft kisses and gentle touches. He wants to feel the stretch of Jack’s smile against his lips when they kiss. He wants Jack to love him. He wants Jack to _make love_ to him. What he got, instead, were rough, biting kisses; Jack’s touch burning his skin; bitten off groans that sounded punched out of Jack’s throat.

Jack breaks the silence with a loud exhale of breath, and then—he breathes in again, shallow and fast.

“Jack?”

Jack rolls over onto his back and reaches blindly for Kent’s hand, holding tight as he begins to panic. He’s hyperventilating and his eyes are wide, and Kent—he knew what to do in this situation, once upon a time. He swallows down the familiar old worry and rising guilt, and he takes a deep breath.

“Jack, everything is okay,” he says softly. He takes Jack’s free hand and places it on his own chest, so Jack can feel it rise and fall as he breathes deep. A decade ago, Alicia Zimmermann had taught him how to do this. He had stayed the night at the Zimmermann mansion, and for once, he’d woken up earlier than Jack. Alicia had made him blueberry pancakes and asked him in a soft voice if Kent knew how to help with Jack’s panic attacks.

He hadn’t had any idea then, but he had gotten a lot of practice over the years.

“You’re in bed and you’re safe,” he whispers, trying to hold Jack’s wild gaze. His pupils are so small, his eyes look too blue to be real. “I’m here, and I—I don’t know if that’s a comfort to you anymore, but you’re not alone, okay? If I’m making this worse, I can go and I can… I can call your mom if you want me to. Jack, I… I want to help.”

“Kenny—please don’t leave,” Jack chokes out.

Kent stays. He whispers comforts and stories about Kit and the lyrics to songs that Jack used to love. He swallows down his own rising panic and focuses on Jack.

Eventually, Jack breathes evenly again and his eyes flutter shut. Kent stops whispering; he drops Jack’s hand and scoots closer, resting his head on Jack’s chest. After a long moment, Jack’s arms come up to wrap around him.

Kent doesn’t know what will happen in the morning, but for now… It’s bittersweet, still, but Jack is warm and his touch is soft, and Kent is sure that Jack presses a kiss to the top of his head as Kent drifts off to sleep.

 

-

 

When Kent wakes up, he’s alone.

Well, not _alone_ alone. Kit is curled up against his side, sleeping and soft. He pets her gently, careful not to wake her.

It’s bittersweet.

His muscles are tender in ways he hasn’t felt in a long time. There are mouth-shaped bruises on his chest and finger-shaped bruises on his hips and his ass is _sore_. His body bears all the signs of the night before—of Jack kissing him, touching him, fucking him with reckless abandon.

The apartment is quiet. Kent glances at his clock—it’s well after noon. Jack’s flight had been for ten. He’s long gone.

Kit wakes up for a second, just long enough to climb on top of Kent’s chest and fall back asleep. He pets her and counts to ten.

He’d expected this to hurt a lot worse than it does. The gaping hole in his chest where Jack used to be still feels like an old wound. It doesn’t burn, it doesn’t sting anymore.

It’s just numb.

 

-

 

Kent drags his ass out of bed eventually, and after a shower and brushing the taste of smoke and Jack out of his mouth, he feels more like himself. He has dozens of missed calls and scores of texts and emails to answer. He knows he should get back to his agent and his GM first, but… There’s a missed call and a voicemail from Jack.

Kent wraps his favorite gray blanket tighter around his shoulders and he takes a deep breath. He doesn’t even know what he’s feeling. It’s—it’s longing, and loneliness, and pain, and regret, and bitterness, and, and it’s love, still, deep down. There’s a part of him that thinks he might be better off if he deletes the voicemail and deletes Jack’s number and never thinks about him again, but that’s just unrealistic. He’s beginning to think that nothing he ever does will help him get over Jack.

Last night was so, so stupid.

He plays the voicemail.

“Hey, Parse,” comes Jack’s voice, tired and distant. He sounds like he’s in a car. “Look, I—I had to catch my plane and I didn’t know if you’d want me wake you up, but… Fuck. I should’ve woken you up to say goodbye, I _know_ that, I just didn’t know how you would react.”

Jack takes a deep breath.

“We shouldn’t have slept together. We can’t do that again. But… I want to be friends. I still—I want you in my life.”

The vice around Kent’s heart tightens.

“I’ll text you when I land, okay? I want us to be okay.”

Kent doesn’t even need to think about it before he texts Jack.

_I want to be friends too._

 

-

 

“Honey, I haven’t heard a single negative thing,” Kent’s mom is gushing over Skype a few days later. She’s sitting at the same kitchen table they’ve had his whole life, and he’s filled with such a sudden _ache_ to be there with her. It’s been too long since he’s been home. He misses his mom, he misses New York, he misses the snow and the cold wind and coming home every night to his family that loves him unconditionally.

“You must not be looking very hard,” he responds with a derisive snort. “Every single person on Twitter has an opinion about me.”

Her eyes narrow and she crosses her arms; Kent sighs in resignation.

“Their opinions don’t matter,” his mother asserts, as fiercely protective as ever. This is a conversation they’ve had every damn time the media’s decided they have reason to hate him—and they’ve found plenty of reasons over the years. “You just have to ignore them.”

“I can’t leave my own apartment,” Kent points out, running a hand through his hair in agitation. “Mom, they’re literally—the paps _literally_ follow me everywhere I go.”

“They’ll calm down in time. You just stay strong, okay? There _are_ lots of people who support you, which includes me and your sister and—Kent, what the hell is that?”

Kent looks up sharply from where he’d been staring down at his keyboard. “What the hell is what?”

“Your _neck_.” She sounds properly angry now, and Kent immediately knows what she’s talking about.

“I, uh, I thought my collar covered it,” he mumbles, blushing bright red. It’s not the first time his mom’s seen him with a hickey, but she knows… she knows the only man he’s been around lately is Jack.

“ _Kent_ ,” she says sternly. “What have you been doing?”

“It’s—I can explain,” he tries weakly, cringing immediately. “Okay, no, I really can’t.”

“Unless you and Jack got back together and you didn’t tell me, there should _not_ be anything on your neck right now.”

Kent shrugs, looking anywhere but at his mother’s concerned eyes. “It just happened. I don’t know.”

“Kent…” She sighs softly. “You shouldn’t be doing this to yourself.”

He looks up, meeting her eyes, and—he feels traitorous tears coming on. “It’s _Jack_. I’ll take anything he gives me.”

“That’s not healthy,” she responds immediately. Kent knows that if he were home right now, she’d be bundling him up into a hug. “It’s not _fair_ to you, honey.”

“Don’t worry.” He shrugs again and doesn’t let himself cry. “It’s not going to happen again.”

 

-

 

It’s been a month since he and Jack came out, and other than the increased paparazzi, not much has changed.

It’s still the offseason and Vegas is definitely not a hockey city. Kent rarely gets recognized when he gets dinner with the team or when Swoops drags him out to clubs; he’s as anonymous as he’s always managed to be since he’s gotten semi-famous. But being out of the closet means that he can openly flirt with the cute barista at Starbucks and he can dance with all the glitter-covered men in gay clubs he never could’ve given a second glance before. He doesn’t sleep with them, though, and he doesn’t let himself think about why that is.

Maybe there are a few more eyes on him than there used to be, and he shows up in trashy tabloids more often than he had a month ago, but—it’s worth it, is the thing. The veil of shame has been lifted, and even though everything is _basically_ the same, there are less secrets to keep. There’s less pressure on him to be perfect all the time and not get caught with another man and never look too _gay._

Now he’s wearing the tightest damn leather pants he could find; he looks gay and he looks _good_. He’s sort of wondering if eyeliner would complete this look. Impulsively, he takes a snapchat in his bathroom mirror and sends it to Jack.

He regrets it for about one second and then decides it’s pointless. He and Jack have been talking again. Not _talking_ talking, but texting and snapchatting a few times a week. Jack had even called him the other day because he’d been trying to tell some story about Snowy and Poots over text, and Kent had chirped him about being a boring storyteller, so—so Jack called him, laughing and defending his “storytelling skills.”

Kent had listened to the story, and even though it was no funnier than the text, he laughed and he fell a little more in love.

Jack snaps him back a few minutes later. It’s a selfie too; the same shot Kent had taken. It’s Jack in his bathroom mirror, in a sweat-soaked tshirt and gym shorts. The caption reads, _Parse_ , _you look like a twink_. It startles a laugh out of him, and he doesn’t even think about it before he screenshots the picture.

Kent tells himself he wants to save the snap because it’s funny—because, apparently, Jack knows the word twink well enough to use it correctly, and Kent is burning with curiosity to find out where he learned that. He tells himself that it’s nothing to do with how fucking good Jack looks, with his sweaty hair flopping over his forehead and his arms glistening and his stupid tshirt pulled taut over his chest…

And if Kent jerks off to that picture later, that’s neither here nor there.

 

-

 

Their next phone call is even more entertaining than the last one.

It’s six a.m. Providence time and three a.m. Vegas time. Kent’s phone vibrates under his pillow, loud and insistent, jolting him out of a strange dream he immediately forgets the second he opens his eyes. He fumbles with his phone, finally hitting _accept call_ without even looking at who’s calling.

“Hello?” He’s half-asleep still, already yawning.

Jack’s answering voice startles Kent into full consciousness. “Kenny?”

“Jack? Are you okay?” Kent sits up in bed, heart pounding hard. Kit, who’s been sleeping at the foot of the bed, lifts her fuzzy little head, blinking her blue eyes at him in the darkness.

“Yeah, no, I’m fine,” Jack answers, sounding… off. Weird. Then he _giggles_. “I just wanted to say hi.”

“Are you drunk?” Kent lets out a sigh of relief. He can handle drunk Jack. He’s an _expert_ on handling drunk Jack. “Dude, it’s, like, six a.m. your time.”

Jack laughs again; Kent can hear voices in the background. “Yeah, it’s been a… a crazy night! You would love my friends, Kent. They’re so great.”

Someone laughs and says something that Kent can’t quite make out, but it makes Jack laugh too. Kent finds himself grinning; he lays back down, still holding the phone to his ear. Kit settles back down too.

“I bet,” he agrees, humoring Jack. “I’ll have to come hang out sometime, yeah?”

“Yeah!” Jack replies immediately, sounding way more excited than he’s ever sounded sober. It’s so fucking cute, it almost hurts. “You should come visit! Kent, oh my god, you should come visit.”

“I’ll think about it,” Kent says, smile slipping. “You might not want me to when you’re sober.”

“No, that’s stupid.”

Kent snorts, too amused for words. “No?”

“I always want you here.” Jack still sounds drunk; he’s slurring his words and he’s way louder than usual, but. _But._ He sounds genuine.

Kent hesitates for half a beat. “Okay, Zimms. I’ll come visit.”

Jack makes a loud noise that sounds like _whoo_ , but way more Canadian. There’s loud laughter in the background, what sounds like several voices. Jack’s friends all sound just as drunk as him, and Kent laughs. They sound _fun_. They sound like the kind of people that Jack needs in his life.

“Kenny, you—you should bring those pants!”

“What pants?”

“You know, the ones from the snapchat.”

Kent bites his lip to keep himself from bursting out laughing. Jack sounds so sincere, which is both adorable and hilarious. “The leather pants?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jack answers emphatically. “I want to see them in person.”

Kent feels woefully unprepared for this conversation. He thinks for a long second before he speaks, then throws caution to the wind—“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather see me without them on?”

“ _Kenny_ ,” Jack whines. Jesus, but Kent feels 18 again, out of depth but wanting Jack so damn bad. What the fuck is he doing?

“Jack,” he whispers back, soft as anything.

“I lied to you,” Jack says, apropos of nothing. Kent’s heart picks up speed again.

“About what?”

Jack is quiet for a while. The noise in the background is dying out.

“Jack?”

“My voicemail,” Jack finally replies, quieter than before. “I said we shouldn’t sleep together again, but—you know, right? You know I didn’t mean that?”

Kent squeezes his eyes shut. _Fuck_. Here he is, pining away and getting his hopes up, but Jack—Jack just wants to fuck him again.

“You should go to bed, Jack.”

“Mm, probably,” Jack murmurs. “You promise you’ll come visit?”

“I’ll think about it,” Kent answers honestly. He hopes Jack doesn’t hear how wrecked he sounds; or if he does, he’s too drunk to realize why. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Kenny.”

Kent hangs up. His phone says it’s well after three now.

He doesn’t sleep much the rest of the night.

 

-

 

Jack texts him about twelve hours later.

_I do actually want you to come visit if you want to_

The thing is, Kent knows that going will just be sweet, sweet torture for him. But he’s never been good at saying no to Jack.

_how’s tomorrow?_

 

-

 

Jack offers to pick Kent up from the airport, but he declines. They’ll be getting enough attention once the paparazzi realize he’s in Providence, and he doesn’t want to jumpstart all the rumors. The majority of the internet is convinced they’re secretly dating already, which, _what?_ If they were dating, why wouldn’t they have said that when they came out?

The amount of fanfiction written about them has more than doubled; Kent would be lying if he said he hasn’t read some of it. A lot of them are too spot-on about his pining, though, and it hits a little too close to home.

Kent takes a taxi to Jack’s place, which turns out to be an apartment building that looks like just about every apartment building Kent’s ever seen.

He rides the elevator up to the thirteenth floor, and when he knocks on Jack’s door, he’s greeted with Jack’s smiling face. “Hey,” Jack says, stepping aside and letting Kent in. He’s barefoot, which Kent finds surprisingly endearing. “You made it here pretty fast for rush hour.”

Kent shrugs and adjusts his snapback as he looks around. Jack’s place is actually pretty decently decorated, but Kent has a feeling the decorations are not courtesy of Jack. Maybe some of Jack’s college friends had helped decorate… Or maybe it was the ex-boyfriend, before he’d become an ex. The dark, jealous part of Kent wants to ask, but he doesn’t let himself. Jack isn’t his to be jealous over, and he’s determined to get through the weekend without picking a single fight.

Kent turns to Jack with an easy, practiced smile. “Gonna give me the grand tour?”

Jack obliges and shows Kent around, starting with the gigantic kitchen and the living room. Kent snorts when he sees the pool table, and Jack laughs too, remembering the same thing.

“I know, I used to suck at pool,” Jack admits, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling at Kent. Kent is hit with the very, very familiar impulse to kiss him.

“ _Suck_ is an understatement,” he chirps back. “You might actually be the worst pool player I’ve ever seen.”

“Maybe I’ve been practicing!”

“Sure, Zimms.”

Jack shows Kent to the guest room, where he drops his bags on the bed, and then Jack leads him back into the living room. He levels a challenging look at Kent and hands him a pool cue.

“You sure you’re ready to get your ass kicked?”

Jack grins, cocky and gorgeous. “Don’t count on that, Parse.”

 

-

 

[jckkent]: guys…. parse is in prov again. I repeat, pARSE IS IN PROV AGAIN THIS IS NOT A DRILL

[zimmerho]: @jckkent paps spotted him at jack’s apartment building!!!!!! THEY’RE PROBABLY FUCKING AS I TYPE THIS

[hockey-bitch]: ok I know I try to stay away from rpf, but GOOD LORD, kent is probably on his knees for jack right now

[zimmerho]: @hockey-bitch oh my god. god bless

[jckkent]: @hockey-bitch @zimmerho IS SOMEONE GONNA WRITE THIS FIC OR AM I GONNA HAVE TO DO IT MYSELF

 

-

 

Jack loses miserably at pool a dozen times before he finally admits defeat. Then, _somehow_ , he manages to convince Kent to play Mario Kart with him. If Kent’s memory serves him right, Jack is also pretty terrible at Mario Kart.

Then Jack gets first place four races in a row.

Kent throws up his arms in exasperation, flinging his Wii remote onto a nearby armchair. “ _How_ are you better at this than me?” he whines dramatically.

Jack laughs, shrugging in false modesty. “I lived in a frat house for a few years,” he points out, nudging Kent’s leg with his toes. He’s stretched out over the whole couch, making Kent all squished on the opposite end, but it’s not like he minds even a little. “We played Mario Kart at least once a day.”

“Ugh,” Kent groans. “I refuse to lose at things.”

They keep playing for hours, only stopping to order and devour a meat lover’s pizza, and Jack wins every damn time, but Kent stops caring. He had been getting second place each round, but now he lets himself slip up a little. He gets caught up in watching Jack—in the way his bright eyes are in laser focus on the screen and the sharp movements of his wrists as he turns the plastic wheel. Jack’s hair is getting a little long, falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look like he’s in a 90’s boyband; Kent kind of hates himself for finding that so attractive. The way Jack’s laying on the couch, mostly horizontal, but with his torso twisted toward the TV, doesn’t look evenly remotely comfortable, but Jack doesn’t seem to care. His bare feet are all tucked up against Kent’s thigh.

It’s nice. It’s really, _really_ nice.

 

-

 

They get bored eventually and fall back on one of their old favorite pastimes—drinking.

The only alcohol Jack has in his whole swanky apartment are fancy craft beers that are a little too thick for Kent’s taste, but he chokes ‘em down anyway. They turn on trash TV and lean against each other on the ridiculously cozy couch—well, Kent leans against Jack, and Jack just lets him. Kent thinks he must’ve racked up some good karma recently, though, because after a while, Jack lets his arm drape across Kent’s shoulders, heavy and warm. They drink and they talk a little; inane, simple conversation. It’s easy and familiar and… It feels so good, it almost sort of aches.

Kent wishes he could have this every damn day of his life.

The Kardashians are bickering on the TV screen when Jack says, sudden and soft, “I’m glad you called me, Parse.”

Kent cranes his neck, but he can’t quite meet Jack’s eyes from this angle. He wonders if Jack is really blushing, or if that’s just the alcohol playing tricks on his mind. How many beers has Kent had to drink? Six? Seven?

Somehow, he knows exactly which phone call Jack’s talking about.

“Yeah,” he whispers as he tucks his head back into Jack’s neck. He breathes in the scent of beer and deodorant and the same ridiculous overpriced shampoo that Jack’s been using since he was 16. “I’m glad I called you too.”

Jack squeezes his arm around Kent, but then he moves his arm back. Kent shifts away too, nervous now about what Jack might be doing, but—Kent looks up, and Jack looks down. Their eyes meet. Jack smiles, soft and honest, and _yes_ , he really is blushing as he raises a hand to smooth down Kent’s persistent cowlick. Kent doesn’t even dare to breathe.

Jack still hasn’t moved his hand.

“I’m so glad we’re friends again,” Jack whispers.

Kent swallows thickly and looks away; Jack finally moves his hand back.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. He feels _guilty_ , he feels so fucking guilty, why can’t he just be happy with what he has? Why can’t he just be glad he has Jack in his life, why does he _need more_? Why does he still need Jack like he needs fucking oxygen? And the thing is—the thing is, Kent knows that if he kissed Jack right now, Jack would kiss him back, but it still wouldn’t change a damn thing. “Me too.”

Kent starts to get up, but Jack grabs his wrist gently, and… When Kent looks into those blue eyes, he sits right back down. There’s a question on the tip of his tongue, but Jack beats him to it.

“There was something you said when were talking that day,” Jack says, sounding more sober than he had a moment ago. “I’ve been, uh, meaning to ask you about it.”

“What?”

“You said something like… You were dealing with shit too.”

Kent’s heart drops and he immediately tries to deflect. “Everyone deals with shit, man.”

Jack furrows his brow and doesn’t let the subject drop. “Kenny, if it really was shit like mine…”

Kent looks away and starts tearing off the label on his bottle for something to do.

“You can tell me,” Jack says softly. His hand is still on Kent’s wrist, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against his skin.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Jack moves his hand down, so he’s holding Kent’s hand now. Kent can’t help but hold on tight as he lets out a long, shaky sigh. _This is a bad idea._ If he lets Jack in now, there’s no going back.

“Jack…”

“It’s okay,” Jack whispers. Kent can feel Jack’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t dare meet his gaze.

Kent takes a deep breath, and the words start to spill out of him, messy and disjointed. “Jack, when you— _fuck_. When you almost died, it… God, it almost killed me too.”

“Kenny, I—”

“You don’t get it,” Kent interrupts, finally tugging his hand away. The look on Jack’s face is breaking his heart, but he makes himself look anyway. “I wanted to kill myself.”

Jack is silent for a long moment. Kent counts to ten again and again, but it doesn’t make him feel any calmer. Jack’s voice is uncharacteristically timid when he asks, “Do you still want to?”

For one long, silent moment, Kent debates lying. But where have lies gotten them? Honesty might be the only thing holding their tentative friendship together at this point. “Sometimes,” he admits, looking away again. “But it’s not your fault. It’s just—it’s depression. I have a therapist and everything.”

“Are you on pills?”

Kent can’t help the derisive snort that comes out of him, ugly and loud. “No, I don’t trust pills much.”

When Kent looks up again, Jack looks like a wounded puppy. _Fuck._

“It’s not your fault I’m like this,” Kent insists vehemently. “We’ve both been through a lot.”

Kent offers his hand back to Jack, who doesn’t hesitate before taking it and holding tight. Both of their hands are calloused and sweaty, but it feels _right_ to have Jack’s big fingers interlocked with his.

The TV is still on, playing some obnoxious commercial about another pointless show. Kent wishes they could go back five minutes, pretend this conversation never happened. _Fuck_ , he wishes they could go back _ten fucking years_ and start this all over.

“Every single day I was in rehab, I wanted to call you,” Jack whispers, voice thick with unshed tears. “But—I was too scared. I don’t even really know why.”

Kent swallows down the hurts, both old and new. This is so much, it’s _too_ much and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. He wants to say, _I love you_ , but what comes out is, “It’s okay, Jack. We—we’re okay now.”

“Yeah...” Jack squeezes his hand even tighter. “We’re okay.”

Neither of them mentions the tears in each other’s eyes. It feels—it feels okay. Maybe not _good_ yet, but they’re getting there.

They sit there on that couch, pretending to watch TV for another few hours, their fingers still laced together.

It feels like healing.

 

-

 

Somehow, inexplicably, they really are best friends again.

Time passes and hockey season starts back up again. Kent and Jack don’t have as much time to talk to each other as they did before, but Kent finds himself carving out spaces in his life for Jack whenever he can. They try to text and snapchat as much as possible with their busy schedules and the time difference, and they make sure to talk on the phone at least once a week.

He and Jack are good. But hockey has gotten… brutal.

Kent had almost sort of forgotten that his coming out would change how he was treated on the ice, but it has. Of course it has. He gets slurs thrown his way every five seconds, and he considers it a triumph when a game passes and he doesn’t get violently checked. His teammates are his boys—they have his back, and even the Aces that aren’t his personal friends would do just about anything to defend their captain. But every fucking time an Ace drops their gloves, the fans and the media love to bring up their old ridiculous story about the Aces playing dirty hockey.

If Kent wasn’t the captain, he would be putting up a lot more of a fight; he would let himself punch every asshole that said a single homophobic thing to his face. But as it is, he _is_ the captain, and that means he has to keep his damn temper in check.

Jack doesn’t complain to Kent about it, but Kent watches his games—he knows Jack is getting the same fucking shit. Some days, it makes him so damn angry, it’s all he can do not to _scream_. His habit of stress smoking is backfiring on him, because he’s craving a cigarette all the damn time now, but he refuses to let it become an addiction.

There’s one bonus of the season starting again, though, and it’s that the media is now much more interested in his hockey than his sexuality. The reporters don’t ask him about Jack anywhere near as much as they have been for the past few months, and it’s one fucking relief amongst all Kent’s stress.

Roadies, in particular, are a huge source of stress. Kent texts Jack late one night when they’re on the road, _what I wouldn’t give to bring kit with me everywhere I go…. ugh_

It must be an ungodly hour in Providence, but Jack texts back promptly anyways.

_you’ll be home before you know it. :) maybe I’ll even come visit you two, eh?_

Kent can’t help but grin down at his phone, even though he knows Swoops will chirp him for it.

 _I’ll hold you to that_ , he texts back.

-

 

For once, it’s not the middle of the night.

It’s noon on a Sunday, and Kent is sitting on his couch with a half-eaten grilled cheese laying abandoned on the coffee table.

“I can make it in about two weeks,” Jack is saying on the other end phone, and Kent grins. It’s only been a few weeks since they’ve seen each other, since Kent spent that surreally perfect weekend in Providence, but he already misses Jack like burning. It’s foolish and reckless, but Kent can’t fucking help it—he wants Jack, any way he can have him.

“I’ll count down the days,” Kent replies, sounding a little more serious then he’d intended. Jack laughs, though, and that assuages any of Kent’s fears.

“You can buy the beer and pizza this time.”

Kent snorts. “I’m not buying that nasty beer you had, man.”

Jack makes an amused sound, comfortable and easy and familiar.

“We can have another deep conversation over reality TV,” Jack chirps. “Honestly, Kenny, I didn’t even know you liked _The Jersey Shore._ ”

“We were watching the _Kardashians_ , you uncultured swine.” Kent hesitates a beat. “Besides, do we have any more deep convos left to have?”

Jack is quiet for a second. “We might,” he says softly.

Kent’s heart picks up, a banging drum in his chest. He can’t even begin to guess what Jack has left to say to him.

“What is it?”

“Kent, we should… We should talk about this when I get there,” Jack replies tensely. Kent swears under his breath.

“No. Whatever it is, just—just say it.”

Jack heaves a heavy sigh, sounding irritated. “It’s not that easy.”

“Come on, Jack.” Kent is fully aware of just how whiny he sounds, but he’s too nervous to give a fuck. He glances out the window, over the Vegas cityscape, over the goddamn balcony where Jack had kissed him, but he doesn’t see any of it. “Just tell me.”

“Fine,” Jack bites out sharply. “I didn’t—fuck. I don’t know how to say this, okay?”

“Just say it, please,” Kent murmurs, voice coming out softer than he’d expected. Whatever Jack has to say, he’s not sure he can take it. But he needs to know.

“I was in love with you,” Jack says suddenly, and everything stops.

Kent takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then, as calmly as he can muster—“What are you talking about?”

“When we were kids,” Jack whispers, quiet and anxious. “I never told you and that was so stupid, because you always told me. But I loved you, I—I did.”

Kent doesn’t know what the fuck he’s feeling, but his palms are sweating and his heart is still racing, and—and there are tears in his eyes. He knows he should say something to smooth all this over, to absolve Jack’s guilt, to change the subject, _anything_.

But the thing is: Kent has always been prone to recklessness. He’s always acted without thinking, and today is no different.

_One… Two… Three…_

“Kent? Are you still there?”

_Five… Six… Seven…_

“Jack.”

_Nine…_

“Kenny, come on, tell me what you’re thinking.”

_Ten._

“I love you.”

“I—you do?” Jack sounds surprised and Kent just—he has to laugh. This whole fucking situation is such a wreck and his emotions are a mess and he can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, Zimms,” he chokes out, shaking his head. “Never really stopped.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Jack whispers. Kent tries not to think about the way his heart is breaking all over again.

“It’s okay,” he says eventually, forcing his voice to stay even. “We can be friends, you know? I _want_ to be friends, I don’t want this to change anything.”

“What if—I mean—” Jack takes a deep breath. “I want it to change things.”

“What do you mean?”

Kent dares to let himself hope; it’s a dangerous feeling.

“I want to try again,” Jack finally says, sounding much more sure of himself than he had a second ago. He’s got that tone that he always gets before hockey games—he’s made a game plan and he’s committed to it. Kent hasn’t heard that tone in a while. “I want _us_ to try again.”

“ _Jack_ ,” Kent chokes out, throat thick with tears.

This is everything. This is—it’s almost a decade’s worth of hopes and dreams and ridiculous fantasies, all come true. It’s Jack’s voice in his ear, soft and sweet, telling Kent that he wants him, that he wants _this_. It’s his hands shaking and counting to ten and pinching his arm, but it’s not a dream.

It’s not a fucking dream.

It’s the happy ending Kent stopped thinking he could ever get.

 

-

 

Jack’s laugh carries across three thousand miles, loud and warm. Kent’s cozy in bed, Kit asleep on his chest, both of them under a blanket. He has Jack on speakerphone, his phone resting next to his head on the pillow. He’s petting Kit’s soft white fur with both hands.

He can imagine, so, _so_ easily, what it would be like if Jack were really here.

Jack has always fit perfectly against his side… Their feet would tangle together, and Jack would be petting Kit too; she’d purr louder. Maybe Jack would press soft kisses to Kent’s neck, or rest his head against Kent’s shoulder.

“You’re being quiet,” Jack says softly, his laughter trailing off, though he doesn’t sound any less happy. He sounds genuinely _content_ , something Kent’s not sure he’s ever really heard in Jack’s voice before. If he had, that was a million years ago.

“I’m happy,” Kent answers, chest feeling lighter than it has in a long, long time. “But I miss you.”

Jack doesn’t hesitate for even a second before he replies, “I miss you too, Kenny.”

Kent’s hand has stilled too long on Kit’s back; she makes a dissatisfied sound until he starts petting her again. It feels good, hearing Jack say those words. There’s only one thing Kent wants to hear him say more—one thing he’s always wanted to hear Jack to say.

Jack’s said it a dozen times now, but Kent’s heart still skips a beat every damn time.

“Hey, babe?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you say the thing?”

Jack laughs again, and Kent grins, easy and wide.

“What thing?” Jack teases, and now Kent is laughing too.

“Just _say it_ , asshole.”

Jack laughs and laughs, and after a moment, his voice gets soft, and—“I love you, Kenny.”

“I love you too,” Kent answers straightaway, smiling so big it hurts. “I can’t believe some smug asshole in a Buzzfeed office is gonna get to brag about being right when we go public.”

Jack snorts. “You read about us on the internet way too much, don’t you?”

“Chirp me all you want,” Kent grumbles. “Our fans are entertaining.”

“Do they still write stories about us?”

“ _Oh_ , yes.” Kent laughs again. “Some of ‘em are cute, but _Jesus_ , some are… explicit.”

“Yeah?” Jack laughs too, sounding like he’s humoring Kent. Kent fucking loves him for it. “Are any of them accurate?”

“Some of them,” Kent answers, smirking. “Seems like they all know I’m really good at giving head.”

“That’s… accurate.”

Kent’s heart feels too big for his damn chest.

“You’re a dork, Jack, and I really, really love you.”

Kent can picture Jack blushing and smiling so vividly when he says, “I love you more.”

 

-

 

Kent smooths down his cowlick for the millionth time, and just like every time before, it bounces right back up. He shoves his hands into his pocket so he doesn’t do it again, but that doesn’t help much. He starts tapping his foot.

He’s so fucking nervous, and it’s ridiculous, because Jack _loves_ him. Jack fucking Zimmermann _loves_ him, he’s said it over and over again. Kent knows how it feels to kiss Jack, to hold Jack, to _be_ held by him, and how it feels to have Jack inside him. But _this_ feels different. He’s waiting for him in the airport like a real boyfriend would. Because that’s what they _are_ now and it was never like this before.

When they were kids, they snuck around and fooled around, but they didn’t go on dates, they didn’t hold hands, they didn’t whisper sweet things to each other late at night. Kent would whisper, sometimes, when he was feeling brave, that he loved Jack, but Jack would never say it back. _This_ is different. Jack loves him. The thought still blows Kent’s fucking mind.

Kent waits and waits, and then—he sees Jack coming, and all his worries fade away. Their eyes meet, and he grins, and then Jack is picking up the pace and Kent is stepping forward too. They meet in the middle of baggage claim.

Jack is beautiful as ever, but Kent only admires him for a second before he’s too busy throwing his arms around Jack’s neck and tugging him down, down, down.

Their lips meet like something out of a movie.

 

It’s a new beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> I DID IT, Y'ALL. Longest fic I've written to date, and for once, I don't even hate it. Please let me know what you think!
> 
> I'll link the art once I get it!! I'm so excited!


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